Page 35 of The Space Between Stars

She would have never guessed the country was in a recession. The dock at Gembolta belonged in a picture book—the kind that was bound in real leather and left open on display behind windows to make people outside a shop want to come in. It was nothing like Kaidech. She’d never seen mosaic arches so tall or so many people from every walk of life, even on the rare occasion her mother had permitted her to leave their shanty. Ladies in turbans with baskets on their hips. Men with arms full of thick rope or heavy netting. Carts filled with melons and trinkets that sparkled, even from so far away. And children weaving in and out of everyone and everything, the way she and Calver once had.

Her father followed her gaze. “Sure you don’t want to go explore?”

Sour injera and bitter qahwa carried on the wind. Tempting. But not tempting enough.

“Gelhard said something about not wanting people to see me disembark,” she admitted, avoiding tattling on Mitek. “Said it would make you a target.”

“He did, did he?”

Her nose wrinkled, and she tried her tongue at speaking like a raider. “He’s a pain in the ass.”

Her father chortled. “That he is. And Preservation has blessed me with that pain. I can only hope that one day you find a friend who second-guesses you at every turn. It’s the only sure way a man can turn out to be the best version of himself.”

Friend? Gelhard seemed only about as good a friend as that idiot deckhand. “How long has he been your quartermaster?”

“Ten years. But we weren’t much older than you when we first started sailing together.”

“Was he always like this?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. I’ll admit he’s become more resistant as the years have ticked by. But it’s worth mentioning that his resistance has saved my life many times.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s been a real shrat to you, but give him some space. He’ll come around. Always does.”

With a splattering of water along the deck, the ship repair, a spindly man with a beard down to his waist, swung over the rail and removed his submersion mask. He looked like a dog as he shook his head to dislodge water from his ears before making his way to them.

“Shipworms,” he said.

Her father blinked twice. “What in Chaos’s unruly bush do you mean, ‘shipworms’?”

“Yeh’ve got shipworms. Troves of ‘em. Have to have been there at least six months. This ship ent worth repairin’.”

A cringe-worthy smile cracked the line of her father’s mouth. “This is a joke. Who put you on to this? Zeb? I’ll pay you twice anything he has.”

“’Fraid not, captain. Worse news, I’ll be needing to report your vessel to Gembolta’s maritime patrol. They’ll be needin’ you to remove it from port within the hour. Spread like the damn Strikapa, these things.”

Fankalo fidgeted with the hem of her tunic as a peculiar vein bulged at her father’s temple. As much as she was relieved that she had not, in fact, cursed their ship as Gelhard suggested, she was sure he would find a way to pin this on her.

“What am I supposed to do with a ship addled with shipworms?”

“Best maroon it somewhere the things won’t afflict anyone else.” The ship repair paused, tilting one ear towards his shoulder as though waiting for water to drip out. “And then you could always eat ‘em. I hear they taste pretty good. Like clams, eah?”

“Fuck!” her father bellowed, fingers lacing behind his neck.

The ship repair looked indifferent, as though he’d told them about a menu change. “Yeah. Rough go, that. I’ll be needing my diagnostic fee now.” He held out a water-pruned palm.

Fankalo’s father’s expression curdled her insides. Without another word, he plucked the ship repair from the deck like a sack of kelp and threw him over the side. Fankalo’s mouth dropped open as a splash sounded below, followed shortly thereafter by the ship repair’s bellow. “Just you wait until I inform the dock magistrate!”

Her father gave her an apologetic smile. “Pretend you didn’t see that.” He whistled up at the crow’s nest, where Zeb remained on first watch.

The old man poked his head over the side in a bedraggled way that implied he might have been sleeping, and her father signaled a series of syllables to him. Zeb nodded and scurried down the ratlines. He twitched in salute.

“Captain Keane?”

“Get the crew. Tell them to be back by highsun or find a new home in Gembolta.”

“Yes, captain!” Zeb gruffed, and he lumbered toward the gangplank.

Captain Keane paced the main deck, the corners of his mouth sunken like stones. A fire burned in Fankalo’s limbs. There had to be a way to fix this mess she’d gotten them into. She closed her eyes, feeling out for her Luck; it was easier the more she practiced.

She felt a pull towards the port where a well-dressed merchant walked with his daughter. They stopped at a street cart, where he bought the girl a pastry. Fankalo couldn’t take her eyes off her: adorned in a silken kaftan of one hundred colors, her turban laced with jewels. She looked stupid like that, like her only purpose was to be looked at and envied and adored. She had to be Fankalo’s own age, but their lives could not have been more different.